


omega

by vorpalblades



Category: I Am Legend (book), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Gen, Season/Series 03, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-15
Updated: 2012-07-15
Packaged: 2017-11-09 23:56:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vorpalblades/pseuds/vorpalblades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, an immunity doesn't help you. Not at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	omega

**Author's Note:**

> Don't ask. I was watching _Croatoan_ , and an hour later I had this.

The dust storms kick up in the west, just sweeping across everything for days, and Dean bitches about what the sand is doing to his baby's paint job. Sam mostly ignores the grumbling, makes snide remarks about it serving Dean right for refusing to leave the desert. Nevada has never done either of them any good; they should be long gone by now.

Sand mixes in with their salt lines at night, blowing under poorly sealed motel doors and windows. Dust in the keyboard hinders Sam's Faustian research, and Dean claims even the shower feels gritty.

The diner across the way lacks a morning bustle, just a lazy couple in the back corner, a trucker at the counter pondering life's mysteries in his cup of joe, and a serving crew bearing a remarkable resemblance to reanimated corpses. Dean slaps at his arm as they enter, "mosquito" explains it all, and they grab a booth when the waitress waves them vaguely in that direction.

Coffee for Dean; orange juice for Sam, and he spoons out black flecks when she drops the glass in front of him. _There's a fly in my soup_ , so he pushes the juice away.

"Hope the food's at least decent," Sam says. Dean yawns, slaps his arm again.

*****

It's all across the country now, the papers still in production report. Pandemic, terrorist plot, the eleventh plague, pick your poison.

Dean can't leave his bed, lethargy fully set in.

Sam runs back to the store, needs broth because even chewing noodles is too much for his brother now. He passes the trucks on his way into town, filled with barely-there men in hazmat suits. They've started burning bodies, trying to damper the contagion, and Sam's ready to shoot any of them if they make a Monty Python reference.

There's no one there for him to pay for the soup.

*****

"S—Sammy."

Sam's been listening to Dean's labored breathing all night. His whispered name isn't fully off his brother's lips before he's off his bed and at Dean's side.

Dean huffs, Sam thinks he's trying to laugh. "I got shortchanged. Still have two months left."

Dean's heart stops just before dawn, and Sam, still at the peak of health, screams.

*****

Sam blinks, and the whole day is gone. Dean's still cold beside him, eyes cloudy and fixed on the popcorn ceiling.

No one shows to collect the body. No one's left.

The fires are still burning, the glow from them enhancing the sunset reaching through the curtains. It's the law to burn the dead now, protect your fellow man and do your civic duty, and Sam starts wrapping the sheets around Dean, the last part of his life to be lost to fire.

He puts Dean in the backseat of the car, notices how she's caked in desert dust, and then he's spewing bile onto the blacktop. The keys get locked in the car when he slams the rear door shut, but he just can't handle this right now.

When Sam goes back inside, he wants to laugh at himself for latching the motel door, force of habit now pointless. Instead he cries, curled up on his bed exhausted, and dreams of clawing noises at the window.

*****

The sun has set again before Sam wakes up. He aches like a hunt gone too long, just another day in paradise, then he looks at the other bed and Dean's been dead for two days.

Sam gets up, looks for the keys before remembering, and opens the motel door. The night is too quiet, he can almost hear the roar of the bonfires.

The backseat is empty.

Sam's vision goes honest red, he will kill for this. Someone needs to die for taking Dean, and Sam's halfway out of the parking lot before he notices. He'll head to the fires, because someone there will pay.

She steps out of the bushes not a hundred yards ahead of him, just a slip of a thing on the brink of womanhood. He gawks, almost whispers a prayer of thanks to whoever's listening, but she drops her jaw and moonlight sparks off sharp teeth.

"Mine," and she lunges.

Instinct is quicker than reason, and Sam's bolting for the room before he realizes why. He can hear more join in the chase, doesn't look back, never look back. He slams the door behind him just seconds before they reach him, and there are howls of protest as they bang against it.

He knows what he saw, and the best blades are in the trunk. Dean's knife is still under the pillow though, and he draws that like salvation. They're still banging on the door, rattling the knob, and it'll only be a moment before the cheap wood veneer gives way.

Something slams outside, a car door, and Sam hears the girl scream like a banshee. She stops, the pounding stops, and a new sound starts, more terrifying than before. Animal Planet feeding frenzy, growls and snaps and gulps. Curiosity wins, and Sam inches toward the door, but the action's too low to see through the peephole.

Someone pops into view, stares back at him, smiles a vicious grin full of fangs and blood. Those green eyes are more familiar to Sam than his own.

"Come out and play, Sammy."

*****

It takes three attempts before the rest of them seem to realize Dean will slaughter anyone dumb enough to get near the room's door. He smiles through it all and is dripping before it's over. They all feed off the stupid.

Sam locks himself in the bathroom until the sun comes up. It's quiet once he comes out—everyone gone, even the car—and all that's left is the stack of bodies in front of the door. He hotwires the pickup next door and takes off, destination be damned.

He passes through towns, sees not another soul. Skips by hotels with ceiling-to-floor panes, ends up at a dive with boarded up windows and surprising sturdy furniture that make efficient barricades. He sets up camp, doesn't eat a thing.

A couple hours after sundown, the sound of home grows closer, and then the engine chokes off. 

"You left me again, Sammy."

Sam can't see the small crowd gathering, but he can hear them, especially when it all turns ugly and someone gets torn to pieces. That he can hear perfectly.

"Come out, Sam."

He finds the remains on his doorstep again the next morning, moves on to somewhere new.

*****

One week and half a country later, Sam's trapped in rural America and cutting it too close to sundown. There's a church up ahead, and it's his only choice. No windows besides those built into solid wood doors, adorned with crosses. 

They don't even get close.

"Sam! Come on out, bitch. No fair hiding in there."

He designates it home base, settles down as much as he can. Daytrips reveal a small ghost town nearby, barely stocked, and he grabs food, pillows, deadbolts before heading back.

Something's nagging at the back of Sam's mind, and he gets bold one night. Opens one of the doors to see who will rush forward, and a balding soccer dad takes the bait, Dean hot on his heels. Not three feet from the door, Dean catches up; light catches the machete blade in Dean's hand and the other's head goes bouncing down the stairs. They're face to face for just a moment, then Sam lifts a rosary he found in the back office. Dean flinches, hisses, jerks back off the steps. Sam slams the door.

"Poor, special Sammy. Always the freak. Can't even get sick like the rest of us."

He starts hunting in the daylight hours. Burns farm houses when he finds nests of them, uses blades, stakes, even the old superstitions seem to work. New breed or old one he doesn't know, but crosses, garlic, holy water all make the difference. He never finds where Dean hides from the day.

"Come out, Sammy. I miss you."

*****

Sam's lost track of time, nothing but a repetitious cycle of sleep, eat, taunt. The town and its neighbors are running dry; food's scarce.

Dean's sitting on the hood of the Impala, parked outside the church where he can watch all. He has a new litany.

"Why, Sammy?"

Why keep going, and it's a good question. Television's static, radio's dead, and the last time he tried to call someone, the cell wouldn't even connect.

"Why, Sam?"

"Get rid of them, Dean."

The yard explodes into chaos and screams, meaty thwacks Sam can hear through the door. He watches through the stained glass as Dean mows down the others, until he's the only one left.

Sam opens the church's door wide and just waits.

 

_end_


End file.
